


Wish You Were Here

by SecretNerdPrincess



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: All the Garcy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Flynn and Lucy deserve a happy ending, Garcia Flynn is a marshmallow, Garcy Weekend, GarcyFam, Happy Ending, Lucy Preston loves Garcia Flynn, Nothing but Garcy, One Year Anniversary of Garcy Weekend, Smut, There's history too, garcy, okay, so I gave them one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretNerdPrincess/pseuds/SecretNerdPrincess
Summary: This is a connected series of ficlets collected from twitter prompts in honor of the 1st anniversary of Garcy Weekend. They were supposed to just be a random bunch of stories, but they took on a life of their own...Together they tell the secret history of Lucy Preston and Garcia Flynn. How they fought and fell in love over the course of two seasons with a very special ending that no one asked for, but I couldn't help but give you. These are the hidden moments we never see on screen.This is my gift to GarcyFam.An alternate timeline in the Threading the Timelines series.





	1. So You Think You Can Tell

**Author's Note:**

> The framework of this story came from a prompt from TriviaSwan.
> 
> "Lucy misses her sister, so in her blank journal, she writes the entries of their missions as letters to Amy. Flynn finds the journal while she's asleep and reads the first entry." 
> 
> Also inspired by BattleshipGarcy's prompt, "Winter Olympics, figure skating event, snow fall, cold hands."
> 
> I took some liberties with TriviaSwan's prompt, but I hope I kept with the spirit with the letters Lucy writes to Amy throughout this story. 
> 
> This is the first letter.
> 
> set between 1x08 & 1x09

Dear Amy, 

At five years old, I fell in love with ice skating watching Katarina Witt soar around the rink in her daring blue feathers, the most graceful woman I’d ever seen and I wondered if that’s what it felt like to fly. To taste freedom gliding across the ice, your feet lifting, twirling, dancing. Her joy entranced me. 

I begged mom for skates for weeks after that, but she wouldn’t acquiesce. What use would any daughter of hers have to prance about in not even a scrap of cloth in front of an audience? Never. Over her dead body. 

Dad got them for me anyway. 

I never took lessons, but he snuck me out of the house every chance he got and I never lost that sense of rapture. I’ll never forget those days. He always bought me ice cream afterwards. 

You hold that same sort of joy. It radiates outward, warming anyone near you and I miss you every day. Your whole life you craved freedom and I wonder what you’d think of me now, jaunting around history chasing Garcia Flynn.

There are so many stories I want to tell you. So many times I wished we could hide under the covers and share our deepest, darkest secrets. 

I will bring you home one day. I pinky swear. 

For now, this journal will have to suffice. 

Where do I start? With the team, these strangers who’ve grown into family? I suppose you’ll learn about them along the way, better than I could ever describe them. 

Do I begin at the beginning, so they say? With the Hindenburg, standing across from Flynn in front of the flames, and losing you to an accidental erasure? Or maybe the story of meeting Abraham Lincoln? Ian Fleming? Getting stranded in 1754? 

Does it sound completely fantastical yet? Because this is the life I’m living. Maybe you’d be better at all this than me, you’re my phoenix, burning brighter, soaring higher. I think you’d love time travel, the good bits anyway. 

Since we’re already talking about ice skating, I suppose I’ll tell you about our most recent mission when I realized Garcia Flynn might not be the bad guy in this story.

We’d jumped to the very first Winter Olympics in Chamonix, France in 1924 to stop Flynn from murdering a man he claimed worked for this nebulous and appropriately nefarious organization called Rittenhouse. 

[Side note: Maybe the real bad guy in all of this. Verdict’s still out.]

Of course, nobody on the team believed him. We knew better, this man was a terrorist who murdered his wife and daughter. 

Me, Rufus, and Wyatt, aka: the team, spent the day running up and down the streets of the city. Following him first to a bakery, then the town hall, then a dingy bar where smoke clung to the wooden rafters, circling in the dull, lifeless air. Wyatt and Rufus caught sight of one of Flynn’s henchmen heading towards a ski lift, but despite my early skating trips, we both know of my epic clumsiness. And someone needed to get back to town, to keep an eye out for Anthony since Rufus still believed he could be saved. As the danger appeared to be heading down a ski slope, I volunteered my services where I’d be less likely to break a leg or two. 

The boys warily agreed, but time was of the essence and they left me to my own devices. I wandered through the crowds, searching for the bald headed scientist. If I found him, we could get to the Mothership and bring it back, stranding Flynn in the shadow of the Alps. Let him figure out how to survive as a man out of time. 

I could get to saving you then. 

I nearly stumbled down a steep hill, my descent slowed by a crowd that gathered around an outdoor skating rink. I used the height of the hill to take in the entire scene, from the snow falling over everything, the sweep of The Alps in the background. Focusing on the rink, I caught a glimpse of a tiny girl taking to the ice and pushed forward to get a better look. 

When I finally made it to the front, her smile hit me first. It was your smile. Katarina Witt’s smile. A smile that beamed over the audience and won the heart of everyone watching. I couldn’t look away. I knew I shouldn’t divert from the mission, but I couldn’t help it. So of course, I wasn’t paying attention when Garcia Flynn appeared at my side startling me out of my reverie. 

“Sonja Henie. Eleven years old. She’ll become the first major female figure skater.” 

I jumped and almost fell into him when my foot slipped on a slick patch of snow. His arm curled around my back, his other hand grabbing one of mine without a thought, steadying me before I could finish gasping. 

My heart raced, though out of fear or the thrill of his touch, I still can’t say. “How did you find me?” 

“Why do you think I sent Karl up the mountain? I’ve been trying to get a moment alone with you all day. But you keep chasing after ghosts.” His mouth curved up in amusement. “I simply wanted to talk to you.” 

“You led us to 1924 just to have a conversation with me?” I asked, incredulous that he had gone to so much trouble. 

“Yes.” I could’ve sworn his face softened for an instant. “You mentioned your love of ice skating in the journal. I thought you’d enjoy this.” 

[Side note: Not this journal, Amy, a different journal. I think. Maybe. It’s complicated. _ Anyway... _ ]

“Why?” I asked again, scanning the square for any way out of this situation and ignoring the fact that Flynn knew little tidbits like that about my life. There were too many people pushing in on all sides. 

“You’re working against me. I’d rather you work with me.” He shrugged. “We both want an end to this and you’re on the wrong side.” 

“You’ve said as much before. But you still haven’t offered us any proof. You’re a murderer. Plain and simple.” 

I remember him closing his eyes and bowing his head, exhaling heavily. When he looked up again, I knew he’d made a decision, but what he said surprised me. 

“You aren’t wearing gloves.” 

He eyed my bare hands dangling over the side of the rink. I tried to shove them in my pockets, but he stopped me. Saying nothing, he removed his gloves and extended them to me. I slipped them on and the residual warmth of his hands wrapped around my fingers. When I looked back up, something lingered on his face. Sadness, yes, but hope as well. Snow drifted down, peppering both of us, while we each stood studying the other. 

I didn’t know how to respond. This unexpected kindness unsettled me. I shouldn’t empathize with the enemy, but something about him tugged at me nonetheless. 

“Thank you,” I whispered, though I’m not sure he heard. I whipped around at the sound of Wyatt and Rufus barreling through the crowd, bellowing my name, and when I turned back, he’d disappeared. 

I wish you could meet him, Flynn that is. I mean, I want you to meet the team, of course, but there’s something about Garcia Flynn that I just don’t understand. He’s terrifying and captivating and I’m drawn to him despite all of it. I need to know what you think of him.

I ask myself often what you would do. 

Wish you were here,   
Lucy

 


	2. Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essentially, it's Flynn and Lucy bang in the woods smut with a smattering of plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from QueenCrimson in exchange for her amazing gif abilities. She wondered why there was no Capture of Benedict Arnold, Lucy and Flynn with the horses, smut. You know, since Flynn looked so yummy in that episode. 
> 
> As with all other prompts, I took some liberties.

Lucy Preston drank her fill of Garcia Flynn as he busied himself watering the horses. She should probably worry a bit more about what the sight of him did to her pulse, but as he bent closer to whisper in the ears of the graceful beasts, she barely remembered to breathe let alone remind herself that he was a terrorist. She’d always believed that you could tell a person’s character by how they treated animals.

Which complicated just about everything.

She could write off the attraction. Flynn with his storm-filled hazel eyes ticked quite a few of her boxes: sexy, dangerous man who looked at her like it was only a matter of time before he’d have her naked and writhing underneath his very skilled attention. That was old news. She’d been fighting it since the Hindenburg when pulled her flush against his chest, her body electric with his thudding heartbeat, his breath brushing a kiss across her skin. A promise.

But this soft, sweet man chipping away at the shields she erected to keep him at arm’s length? He could be her undoing and she would enjoy every delicious second of it.

They talked as the horses rested and she wanted to reach out and run her fingers over the buttons lining his burgundy vest. Wanted to flick them open, undressing him in the late summer sunlight, the breeze ruffling his dark hair as she brought him to his knees. She wanted to master this man, to leave him begging for more.

Or maybe she wanted him to loosen the ties holding her corset together, to slide those long fingers beneath the fabric, teasing her nipples until he left her gasping. Clutching at his lapels to drag his mouth down to hers--

_This would not do._

She needed to put a stop to the tango her libido demanded.

“We need to talk,” Lucy licked her lips without knowing and sashayed into the woods beyond, not bothering to make excuses to the rest of the group.

When Wyatt made to follow, she whipped her head around. “No. Not you. You go on ahead. We’ll meet you further up. Flynn and I need to set some things straight.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Now.”

Garcia Flynn had no idea why Lucy barked orders at him, but he liked it. More than he should. He’d noticed her watching him and really didn’t know what to make of it. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about tasting her, worshipping her body. He wanted her to scream his name when she came apart in his arms.

But now was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts. No matter how tempting he found her when her anger raised the color on her cheeks and sparks danced in her eyes.

Lucy Preston was dangerous and he followed her into the woods.

She whirled on him when he finally caught up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Excuse me?” _She had no right to look so delectable._ “What am I doing? I’m just here to kill Rittenhouse.”

“Oh, don’t play innocent with me.”  

Lucy folded her arms over her chest and huffed, her breasts pushing at the top of her corset, Flynn couldn’t help but notice.

“I am anything, but innocent.” He stepped towards her in warning. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Lucy?”

She moved close enough to poke at his chest. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Flynn stopped her hand halfway, holding it in place. “I have learned not to guess at your thoughts.”

Snatching her hand away, Lucy put some distance between them. “This sweet as pie, talk to horses, tell me about how you read comics and wanted to be a cowboy facade.”

“That’s not a facade.” He leaned against a nearby tree, pretending nonchalance at the pang of hurt that accompanied her words. "It's the truth."

“I’m sure that’s what you’d like me to believe.” Her emotions warred inside her. “You’ve been trying to get me to work with you since the beginning. Maybe you’ve just changed tactics now. Maybe it started with the gloves.”

“The gloves?” Flynn glanced away, playing dumb. Thinking of her petite hands covered with the gloves he’d given her meant more than he was willing to admit.

“The gloves. You know the gloves.” She stalked towards him. “The gloves you gave me like some kind of Victorian gentleman on our fake date.”

He shook his head trying to catch up with the conversation. “Our fake date?”

“Stop talking. You don’t get to talk right now.” Lucy realized she’d revealed too much calling it their fake date. She knew he didn’t actually mean it to be a date, but it felt like it to her anyway. “I should’ve known it was all an act. Just to trick me into trusting you.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Lucy. I’m not trying to trick you.” He really wished she’d give him at least one chance. He even gave her proof of Rittenhouse. What more did she want? “You can choose to trust me or not.”

“I will never trust you.” Contrary to her words, her body drew still closer to his.

Flynn smirked, noticing her movement. “Well, that’s that then, isn’t it?”

 _What right did he have to look so delicious?_ “You are not a good man. You might have been once--”

He glared at this tiny woman who misunderstood so much about him. “You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

Lucy planted her feet, refusing her body’s demand. “You shot Lincoln. Did you think you’d just fake some guilt and swan into our good graces?”

“Fake some guilt?” He pushed off the tree. “Watch what you say. You might cross a line you’ll regret.”

Flynn towered over her, but rather than the fear she should feel, her body hummed, magnetized by his.

Confused, she lashed out, “Do you really think after murdering your way through history, I’d just forgive you? You don’t even think your family would forgive you. Why should I?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she’d gone too far. But Flynn didn’t threaten her with violence or raise his voice. He didn’t do anything you’d expect from the murdering psychopath he was famed to be. No, Flynn did something far more dangerous.

He kissed her.

One second he was a foot away, completely in control, and the next, his mouth claimed hers. Demanding she open to him, lighting her nerve endings on fire. Her core turning molten as his passion scorched through her. She clutched at his lapels, pulling him closer, her fingers moving to fumble with the tie around his neck. His kiss revealing far too much about things neither one of them dared voice.

He ended the kiss as abruptly as it began.

His fingers still threaded through her hair, holding her in place as he whispered, centimeters away from her lips.

“You will forgive me, because you have seen the worst of me, and you _like_ it.”  His thumb skimmed across her lips.

Lucy couldn’t breathe. She knew she should back away. To run to the safety of Wyatt and Rufus and the mission. Flynn’s fingers slipped from the back of her neck tracing along the edge of her blouse, her nipples tightening.

Flynn knew he’d made a mistake, far more affected by her than he anticipated. Unfulfilled desire raged between them and it took every ounce of his energy to regain control of himself. Her swollen lips a temptation as much as her fingers fluttering at the dip in her throat. He wanted this frustrating woman raking her gaze down the length of his body.

“We need to rejoin the others,” he choked out, burying his hunger for her.

_She’d done that to him._

Her willpower snapped at the knowledge. Lucy shoved him back against the tree and continued their kiss as if it had never stopped. Her fingers went immediately to his vest, making quick work of the buttons before tugging the shirt from his trousers. She pressed herself into him, running her hands down the planes of his chest, slipping into his pants.

Flynn moaned against her mouth as he loosened the ties of her corset and nibbled at her earlobe. He kissed his way down her neck, her collarbone, until his tongue found one raised nipple, and it was Lucy’s turn to mewl in encouragement. He dropped to his knees and her eyes widened, knowing what he intended as he lifted her skirts.

She didn’t say no. Didn’t stop him from sliding her underwear down to discard them at the side of the tree. She couldn’t have even if she wanted to. And as Flynn’s deft hands drifted to her upper thighs, spreading her wider, she really didn’t want to. Light brushes of his fingers, teasing as he kissed his way towards her center. The first dip of his tongue nearly brought her to her knees. The second and third had her grabbing at the tree behind her. A finger replaced his tongue as he drew her clit into his mouth, her own passion screaming for release. Her hands reached down to cover his head through her skirts.

“Flynn, oh god, Flynn,” her words husky, her heart thudding as she clutched at him. Fingers, mouth, tongue, her mind swirling. Lifting her skirts, she begged him, “I need you.”

He slipped one finger back inside, stroking her as he stood. She unbuttoned his trousers, winding one leg around his hip, her fingers circling him, matching his rhythm. When neither of them could wait any longer, he withdrew his fingers. She cried out, bereft at the loss until he lifted her, whipping them around and her back met the rough bark of the tree as he sheathed himself fully inside her, her body readily accepting his hard length.

They both froze in the moment, terrified at how right it felt to be inside her. To feel him throbbing in time to her heartbeat. It was too much and not enough.

“Fuck me, Garcia Flynn.” She didn’t want to think about how much she wanted this.

He pulled out and surged back inside her. Fucking away the feelings that surfaced between them. She demanded more as his fire stoked hers and they both set a bruising speed. Lucy lost herself in him. Flynn ignored the crack in the wall around his heart, vowing to forget it tomorrow.

But without knowing, their pace slowed, their bodies lingering on the sensation until their orgasms crashed over them and they clung to each other in the aftermath. Gasping breath, pounding hearts, emotion beating at the wall that remained between them, denying what they both felt.

Lucy unwound her legs from his body and he let her withdraw and slip to the ground. Both turning away, too vulnerable to look at the other. She peeked at him as she gathered herself together, picking bits bark from her hair, attempting to fix her disheveled appearance. His armor back in place as he buttoned his trousers and brushed the dried leaves that clung to his legs.

_What had she done?_

She could not have feelings for Garcia Flynn. Even if he soothed a buried part of her soul she thought she’d forgotten. A woman who lived deliberately, who did something real with her life. Who made a difference in this world. Not the woman who followed in her mother’s footsteps out of fear of striking out on her own.

Flynn was in trouble, he knew it, but he’d never reveal the depth of what he felt here today. I couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to. And he couldn’t continue this fight against Rittenhouse if he didn’t set aside all distractions. That’s all Lucy Preston would ever be. A distraction. She deserved so much more than the broken shell of a man he’d accepted as his punishment for saving his family. Because Lucy was right, he wasn’t a good man. No matter how much she made him want to believe otherwise.

“We should catch up with the team,” Lucy said instead of confessing her confusion to him. “They’ll wonder where we are.”

He swallowed the words he wanted to say. “Yes, we need to get you back.”


	3. Two Lost Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second of Lucy's letters to Amy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TriviaSwan's prompt continued. 
> 
> Set post 1x12 (The Murder of Jesse James)

Amy, 

I’ve never missed you more in my life than I do right now. You’re more than my sister. You’re my best friend. My confessor and confidante. My soul mate. I can tell you anything. 

_ Lucy...what did you do? _

Something foolish. 

_ Foolish or impetuous?  _

Both, I guess. 

_ You slept with him, didn’t you?  _

I--

_ Is that such a bad thing?  _

It’s a terrible thing. I can’t fall for Garcia Flynn. That man could make a girl forget her own name and like it. 

_ That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.  _

What do you know? You’re in my subconscious and I’m literally sitting here writing out an entire conversation with my sister who was erased from time. I’m probably two steps from loony toons. 

_ Sounds like what you’re saying is that I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.  _

Well if you’re going to use logic against me. 

What do I do? I cannot get any closer to him. You don’t know him, he’s like a supernova set to burn me to ash and leave me scattered in the wake. 

_ You’re scared. _

I am. I’m afraid of losing myself. He’s not safe, Amy, not by a long shot. But sometimes when he looks at me, it’s like he’s seeing the sun again after years of rain.

_ What aren’t you saying? _

What do you mean? 

_ You're happier about the sex than you're pretending. So what's really bothering you? What are you hiding? _

I might not be hiding anything.

_ Might not. But you are. _

How do you know? 

_ I’m your sister.  _

I miss you. 

_ I know. Stop stalling, what aren’t you telling me?  _

I killed a man. I killed Jesse James. He was meant to be murdered anyway, but I shot him after he surrendered. I told myself I had to keep history intact. What if he escaped? Every person he killed would be my fault. I felt justified, but it doesn’t change the fact that I put a bullet in his back in cold blood. 

Which makes me no better than Flynn and means I’ve been holding him to a higher standard than I do myself. I might have felt justified in making sure history stayed the same, but the guilt I feel? The weight of it is crushing me. 

That night, after everything that happened between us in those woods, I saw his struggle, what this fight costs him. I didn’t understand it then. I think I’m beginning to now. 

_ That sounds like a good place to start. _

I suppose it does. 

_ What are you going to do?  _

I have no idea. 

_ You should figure that out. _

Yeah, I should.

Wish you were here,    
Lucy


	4. A Smile From a Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy's lost.   
> The third letter to Amy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set after 2x01

Dear Amy, 

I watched the sun rise over the Mississippi yesterday. Sitting alone, feet dangling off the side of a bridge in Memphis in 1882 as the river passed below me. It all came crashing down. Losing you. Finding out Henry wasn’t my father. Getting kidnapped by our mother and finding out: SURPRISE! she’s Rittenhouse and I’m descended from a sociopath.  

Yes, you read that right. Our mother. Our staid, refined mother is part of an evil organization bent on world domination. 

I can hear you now...

_ Well, duh, Lucy. How did you not know that? _

Fine, fine. We’ve proven you’re smarter than me before, it’s getting boring. Put that raised eyebrow away, I don’t need your facial sass. I’m freaking out right now. 

Because Flynn. Fucking Flynn. Confusing. Infuriating. Brought me proof when I asked for it, because I asked for it. Always fighting on the right side of history, Flynn. I made him jump through so many hoops. To prove himself. Repeatedly. 

Listen, he did horrible things. I’m not excusing his tactics, but he wanted to save his family. I find, these days, when faced with the question of what I’d do to get you back, the answer is anything. I would do anything to bring you home. I would never stop. 

Never. 

Flynn finally made his choice to trust me. Amy, if you could have seen this broken, grieving man pleading with me, hanging on to a shred of hope, it would have shattered your heart. I offered him a lifeline and he trusted me not to betray him. That trust landed him in jail. 

I can’t bring myself to go see him. 

The betrayal I saw in his eyes when Denise had him dragged away before he could save his family. I can't face it. If I knew how to do it, I’d go back. I’d change everything to give him back the life Rittenhouse stole from him. He deserves it. He deserves the world.

But I confess, I want to hold him. To wrap my arms around him again. I miss him at the oddest times. 

Wish you were here,    
Lucy


	5. Cold Comfort For Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vodka night.   
> Lucy's fourth letter to Amy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set post 2x06

Dear Amy, 

I clutched the bottle of vodka to my chest, ineffective armor at best, and knocked on his door. It cracked open and widened, Flynn filling up the empty space. 

I was tired. After everything, I was just so tired. 

He welcomed me. As I knew he would. A tentative friendship between us very new, fragile, but I needed...him. 

Just him. 

I couldn’t talk and he didn’t make me. I sat on the bed, Flynn in his chair as we passed the bottle, silence between us for a long time. 

Until…

“I wish I could change our beginning. How and when and why we met.”

I nodded, accepting the bottle. 

“When you found me in Sao Paulo, I'd lost everything, or so I thought. And then you handed me your journal and light kindled inside me. Hope.” 

I watched him as he stared at the floor, elbows on his legs, hands dangling over his knees. Lost in thought. 

“But when we met again, nothing fit. I think I expected you--” He broke off, rubbing the heel of his palm between his eyes. “I don’t know what I expected. I thought we’d be friends, at least.”

“I think I would’ve liked that.” How different our lives would be. “I wonder where we’d be now.” 

He fell quiet again. Taking the proffered vodka, leaning back in his chair, his eyes focused on the rusty door. 

I think I would’ve liked that, Amy. How much trouble we might’ve avoided if we hadn’t been fighting on the opposite of this war. A war we’re losing, by the way. I can feel it, creeping towards me. Something wicked this way comes, I guess they’d say. 

“Do you ever think about it?” I asked, picking at a stray thread on my jeans. 

He looked at me for the first time. “All the time.” 

We could erase our entire timeline starting with Sao Paulo, I almost say. We could change it all. 

But our history is, well, our history. Good, bad, indifferent. 

Standing in front of the burning wreckage of the Hindenburg or in Mrs. O’Leary’s barn during the Great Chicago Fire, Garcia Flynn and I are destined to meet. I’m sure of that now. I’m not sure of anything else, but I’m sure of that one thing. 

I curled onto my side, breathing in his scent that surrounded me. 

He rose to lift a blanket from the back of his chair and draped it over me, kneeling down beside the bed. 

“Do you think you could ever forgive me?” I cupped his face, thumb tracing over his cheekbone. “For how we began?” 

“You never needed forgiveness, Flynn. Not from me.” I took a long drag from the bottle. “There’s so much I haven’t told you,” I admitted, my drunken tears falling onto his pillow. 

“There is time to tell me your stories.” He bent down and kissed me, gentle, sweet, and then tucked the blanket under me. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Do you mind if I stay?” I asked, the alcohol weakening my resolve. 

“There’s nothing in the world I’d like more.” 

He rose to go back to his chair and I extended my hand. “Will you...do you think…I can’t sleep,” I confessed, stumbling over my words. His fingers slid into mine, crawling behind me on the tiny bed. 

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.” 

“Just...stay,” I mumbled, curving into his body. 

I think I’m falling in love with him, Amy. 

Wish you were here,    
Lucy


	6. The Dutiful Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team track a sleeper to a Masquerade in 1974 Minneapolis, Minnesota. Little do they know they're walking into a swingers party. Lucy and Flynn are hopeless. Wyatt gets a bit of comeuppance. Jiya is a badass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came straight from the mind of redgold. I think it went something like, I really want the team to stumble into a swingers party, but because Wyatt decides that Lucy's his wife for the party, he utterly screws himself over. Flynn and Lucy go off to a bedroom to talk...or whatever. 
> 
> set between 2x08 & 2x09

Lucy, Flynn, Wyatt, and Jiya stepped through the doors of the ornate mansion. A crystal chandelier dangled over the center of the foyer, the glittering shards dancing rainbows over the curving marble staircase that led to the upper floors. Music and voices drifted in from a room to their right hidden behind royal purple velvet curtains parted slightly to hint at the party within. An older man with pure white hair and dressed in an immaculate set of tails stood at attention to greet the guests as they arrived. 

Lucy raised her silver mask to cover her face leaving only her rose pink lips visible. “Sounds like the party is this way.” 

The group approached the arched entrance. 

“Good Evening.” The dignified man extended a palm. “Your invitations, please.”

Flynn then Wyatt passed over the engraved parchment invitations Jiya forged earlier in the day while they were out stealing clothing for the Masquerade. Bowing, the man pulled back the heavy curtain wide enough to enter. Jiya and Lucy went first, their long gowns sweeping out behind them. Lucy’s, a rich burgundy with tiny slate grey beads that trailed down from her left shoulder and twined around her body, leaving her right shoulder bare save for a cascade of her brunette hair. For Jiya, a deep forest green with light threads of silver woven through it. 

Pale pink walls covered in silver filigree framed floor to ceiling windows looking out onto a large, manicured garden. Around them, a smattering of Victorian furniture occupied by couples sipping cocktails, speaking in low hushed tones. At either end sat two bars surrounded by more chattering guests. In the center of the outer wall, French doors opened to the outdoor space where a small jazz band played in front of several small cafe tables spread out over a stone veranda. 

A tall, stately woman with white blonde hair that fell down her bare back like a shimmering waterfall noticed them and sauntered over, champagne in hand. Her iridescent dress reflected the lamplight, changing from teal to blue to purple with every swish of her hips. 

“Oh lovely! New friends!” Behind her deep purple mask, she let her eyes roam over Flynn and Lucy felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. “Who’s with whom?” 

She started to claim Flynn, but an arm snaked around her waist and pulled her close. “I’m Wyatt, this is my wife, Lucy.” 

“Lovely, just lovely.” Their host oozed charm as she offered her fingers to Flynn to take while reaching out to cup Jiya’s face in her palm. “And who are these two delectable morsels?” 

The vicious cad bent down while keeping his mask tilted up at her heart shaped face and kissed her hand. 

“I’m Garcia and this beautiful woman I’m happy to call my wife is Jiya.” He wound his hand around hers and she leaned into him. 

“Well, aren’t you all just the bee’s knees.” She stepped back into the arms of a man with a thick head of salt and pepper hair that came up behind her and indicated the rest of the room. “Welcome to the Silver Chain Social Club.” 

Lucy’s brain stuttered and derailed.  _ Did she just say--  _ When the appropriate information filtered into her conscious mind, she realized she would require copious amounts of alcohol. If she had to watch another woman walk off with Flynn...

“I’m Evelyn and this is my husband, Edward. We only ask that you stay courteous and respect the anonymity of what passes within this estate this evening. Otherwise, please, eat, drink, and be merry.” 

Another couple entered and their hosts wandered over to greet them leaving the team to get down to business. Only the most important facts first. 

“What kind of party is this?” Jiya snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

Flynn led them to the bar to grab cocktails and blend in. “I imagine it’s some kind of high end free love--” 

“They’re a group of suburban socialites that gather for swingers parties,” Lucy responded when her brain started to function again. Wyatt looked a bit scandalized, not only as the real reason behind the party dawned on him, but also at Lucy’s knowledge of it. She shrugged and took the martini Flynn held out to her. “It’s actually quite civilized and open minded. It started with eight founding members and grew to hundreds over the decade that it existed. Mostly, they were very progressive in their ideas, but had lives they wanted to protect.” 

Wyatt sipped his Manhattan once. Twice. Three times. “So that means…” 

“At some point in the near future we’re going to be called upon to swap partners. You’ll be expected to retire to a bedroom for intimacy.”  Flynn tipped his whiskey in the other man’s direction and took a long drink, enjoying the horror blooming in Wyatt’s eyes. “With anyone  _ except _ your wife.” 

Jiya studied Lucy and found what she saw fascinating. The woman seemed almost frantic. Not at Wyatt being off limits. No, at that she’d shown nothing but relief.  _ Interesting.  _ But Lucy fidgeted, taking nervous sips from her drink. Decidedly  _ not _ looking at Flynn. She’d suspected a growing attraction between the two, but with him on the team officially now, maybe things had changed. Filing that information away for later, she chose instead to enjoy Wyatt’s discomfort a bit longer. 

“To be fair,” Jiya teased, “I don’t think the bedroom is absolutely necessary. I imagine those lovely gardens just outside have housed many a happy coupling.” 

She’d thank Rufus later for staying behind so she could go on another mission. It was proving far more fun than it looked like initially. Luckily, he didn’t care for a Masquerade and Jiya loved getting dolled up. 

“Well then.” Wyatt downed his drink and signaled for another one. “We just have to find the sleeper before that point.” 

***

Wyatt had never been groped by so many women in his life. Women dripping in diamonds dragged their painted nails down his chest, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt while he tried to pry information from their husbands. One particularly brazen woman in a flaming yellow mini dress, slipped a hand in his pants before he fell out of a chair in an attempt to get away from her. 

Lucy stayed by his side the whole time, playing the dutiful wife, encouraging him to seek out ministrations of another woman. 

“You’re enjoying this,” Wyatt bit out after fending off a curvy redhead who left a cloud of hairspray in her wake. 

She rolled her eyes at his indignation. “I’m sorry, did you expect me to feel sorry for you?” 

“You seem to be handling it well enough,” he huffed out, adjusting his tie for the fifth time in the last half hour. 

“It’s called being a woman.” She smirked, unsurprised at his reaction.  “I have years of escaping unwanted hands.” 

“Still,” he sulked, “you’re enjoying it.” 

“Yes, yes I am.” 

And she was, right up until the witching hour arrived and they still hadn’t located the sleeper. 

Their hosts made their way to the stage, accepting the microphone from the singer of the band. 

“As you know, we always have a theme,” Evelyn drew the attention of the now seated crowd.

Lucy squirmed in her chair, stealing glances at Flynn at the table next to her and Wyatt. How could he sit there, calm as a cucumber, surveying the many-- _ many _ \--women who’d happily entertain him for an evening? Was he completely oblivious to her churning emotions? Unaffected by everything that passed between them? 

Evelyn’s smile broke free as she continued. “We women have made great strides forward these last few years. Breaking out of the molds shaped by the men who came before us. Choosing our futures for ourselves. So tonight, ladies, we choose. We choose when. We choose how and where and why. I know some of you already have a partner in mind.” She winked down at Flynn. “Tonight is your chance to choose purely for yourself. And remember, there’s no need to limit your number of partners, if that’s what brings you joy.” 

Edward slipped his hand in his wife’s, pulling her in for a long lingering kiss before walking away. 

Evelyn spoke one last time. “Let the festivities begin.” 

The world slowed around Lucy as she rose and found Flynn staring at her, waiting for her choice. His arms folded over his chest, one careless knee draped over the other, as if daring her to take what she wanted. What she really wanted. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. 

Until the first woman made a beeline for him. 

_ Mine.  _

The thought settled over her and fit itself into the waiting space. The room in her heart reserved only for him. A shadowed room, deep grey walls lined with dusty books, a stolen trail of breadcrumbs collected from their history. 

_ Garcia Flynn is mine.  _

It felt...right. One footstep. She tasted the residual memory of his kiss. Another. Closer to home. To his faith. His belief. In them. Claiming him with every step forward. She extended her hand, anxious. Waiting. Remembering the night she spent sleeping curled into the warmth of his safety. 

_ Mine. _ Their fingers threaded together. 

Jiya watched as the two of them disappeared up the nearest staircase. WIth everything the historian suffered through since joining the team, Lucy deserved a bit of happiness. If she could find it with Flynn, Jiya wouldn’t argue. 

She glanced back at Wyatt being dragged off by three women wearing the same shade of fuck me red lipstick. He threw a pleading look in her direction. All she had to do was choose him. 

“I actually think I have a lead,” Jiya apologized by way of explanation, moving to intercept the man with slicked back, greasy hair. “I’ll come and get you when I get him rounded up.” 

“You aren’t going to help me?” 

“Nope.” She enjoyed one last image of him standing in the middle of the room before abandoning him to fend off any number of women who eyed him hungrily throughout the evening. “Serves you right for acting like a possessive ass.”

***

They fell into each other. Lucy winding her arms around his neck, Flynn tangling his fingers in her hair, losing themselves to the long simmering desire. Their lips parted, gasping for breath and Flynn pulled back to gaze at her through glossy, passion-filled eyes. 

“Lucy…” Her fingers loosened his bow tie, making quick work of his starched white tux shirt. He gathered her hands in his. “Lucy, please.” 

She stumbled back, suddenly afraid, but Flynn kept her close, one arm wrapping around her waist.

“I think we should talk, don’t you?” 

She slipped her hands free and went back to unbuttoning his shirt. “We don’t need to talk.” 

Her palms slid back the parted fabric, smoothing over his chest, her thumbs tracing his collarbone. She pushed onto tip-toe to pull his mouth down to hers and he memorized the taste of her lips, sweet, tempting, a hint of strawberries and sage. But he couldn’t keep playing this game. Much to his chagrin, he had fallen in love with this woman tugging him towards the bed. 

Lucy wanted to live in this moment, his fingers framing her face, his kiss, so tender she thought she might cry. All her fears crashed in on her and she only kissed him harder. She chose Flynn, but she had no idea what this meant to him. 

Talking...if they talked she might lose him. She wasn’t ready for that. She’d have to be eventually, but not today. 

“Lucy, please,” he pleaded with her. 

She pulled back, letting her forehead fall to his chest. “Flynn, please just give me this night.” 

Gentle hands lifted her face. “It’ll never be enough.” 

Her heart plummeted. “I understand.” 

Garcia felt her slipping out of his arms, her gaze anywhere but on him. “No, you really don’t.” 

“If you don’t want me--I just thought...after the woods.” She thought she’d love him as long as time allowed. “I know I couldn’t hope to hold your heart, but--” 

“Stop.” He wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Just stop.” 

He bent down, kissing her forehead and pulling her into his body, her cheek against his chest. He savored the feeling of holding the woman he loved in his arms, he’d protect her against anything. He’d take however many days and nights she offered him and be happier for the time. 

A hand cradled the side of her face, his thumb stroking her jawline. “I am tainted, cracked by the darkness of my decisions, and you deserve the light.”

“We’re not so different.” She squeezed her eyes closed against the echoing darkness inside her. “I killed two men.”

He held her tighter. “Oh, my Lucija, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his accent thickening as he fought back his own tears. “I never wanted you to know that guilt.” 

“So I understand why you don’t want me. Why you can’t love me,” her last words muffled as she buried her face, her mascara leaving dark streaks on his shirt. 

“Lucy, I’ve been falling in love with you since you stood in front of me as fiery as the flames of the Hindenburg burning around us. I fought against it, never thinking I’d be worthy of loving you.” Her deep inhaled breath filled his arms. He bent down, whispering in her ear. “I love you, Lucy Preston.” 

She turned in his embrace and looked up at him, eyes smudged, tears still lingering on her lashes. 

“Say it again, Garcia.” 

His name on her lips left him breathless. “I love you.” 

Jiya burst into the room. “Oh thank the gods, I found you. You have no idea how many rooms I had to check before--” Flynn and Lucy broke apart and Jiya finally focused on the scene in front of her. Lucy scrubbed at her eyes while Flynn buttoned his shirt. “Err, um, yeah, sorry. But I took care of the sleeper and we need to go. Like now.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Silver Chain Social Club was actually a thing in Minneapolis in the 1970s though I took a lot of liberties in the fic. You should read up on it. It's pretty fascinating. 
> 
> https://www.gq.com/story/inside-secret-swingers-club-from-the-70s


	7. All Is True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 29, 1613. The day the Globe Theater burned down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes courtesy of LadyAllieLeigh's prompt: "On a mission, Wyatt can't bring himself to fight Jessica and as a result Lucy gets kidnapped by Rittenhouse. How does Flynn react when he finds out what happened." 
> 
> As with all those before it, I took some liberties with my interpretation. 
> 
> All quotes come from Henry viii.  
> The title of this chapter comes from the original title of that play. 
> 
> set post Chinatown

 June 29th, 1613

The afternoon sun beamed over the actors as they performed their lines unaware of the disaster hanging over them.

“O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too:  
_But he would bite none; just as I do now,  
He would kiss you twenty with a breath.”_

Lucy scanned the gathered audience standing in front of the stage and up over the three levels of balconies that circled the theater. The air inside blanketed the skin, her dull brown dress and chemise clinging to her body from the heat of the packed playhouse. Wyatt stood off to her right, eyes on the box seats above the performance with access to backstage before sweeping over the balconies and around again. Emma was running around the Globe intent on god knows what mayhem.

You wouldn’t think a redhead would be that hard to find in 17th century London, but you’d be wrong.

One day Lucy’d like to travel just to witness history, that’d be a novel change. Right now, though, there was no time to admire the dark wooden beams of the theater that on one cold December night the actors of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men disassembled on one side of the Thames and reassembled on the other.

Lucy worried about Flynn and Jiya searching backstage, trapped by a maze of rooms. At least she and Wyatt were surrounded on all sides by a crowd. Emma, Jess or any number of their goons would have to draw them outside for any confrontation. None of them would be that dumb. They’d stay out of sight until they accomplished their mission.

Which was, what, exactly? Would Emma go after Shakespeare? Or maybe Richard Burbage, the beloved Elizabethan actor playing the roll of Henry that night? Or John Fletcher, Shakespeare’s co-author of Henry the Eighth who still had years of writing ahead of him?

The team had no idea. But the Mothership jumped, so they jumped. With Emma in charge of Rittenhouse now, they were at a loss to anticipate any moves. At least Nicholas and her mother had been predictable. Famous person assassinated, government manipulation, or sleeper planted. One of three options.

Wyatt tugged at her elbow, grabbing her attention. “I saw Jess.”

“Where?” She turned taking in the whole theater. There, just at the rear left exit to the lobby area, the blonde slipped out the door. Lucy caught a movement in her peripheral and turned in time to see Emma in the lowest balcony on their right followed by two of her goons heading backstage. “Shit.”

“What?” Wyatt ducked his head when an old matronly woman hushed him.

Lucy jerked her head to the right of the stage. “Emma and two of her men.”

She could tell he wanted to go after Jess, but the blond wasn’t the target. “Flynn can deal with Emma.”

Wyatt turned to follow Jess.

 _You have now a broken banquet, but we’ll mend it._  
_A good digestion to you all; and once more_ _  
I shower a welcome on you. Welcome all!_

Lucy glanced towards the stage, any minute Burbage would enter and the cannons would fire sending a scrap of burning paper to the thatch roof above. Obviously a diversion, Jess could not be the priority right now.

“Wyatt, Emma is the target. I know you love her,” she reached out, stopping him from following after his wife, “but this is not the time. Flynn and Jiya have too many people to protect.”

He pulled away from her and passed her a gun. “I have to go. I’ll circle around behind after I find her.”

“Wyatt--”

The cannons boomed and the crowd roared in approval. Lucy raised her eyes to the roof and saw the ember land gracefully on the thatch. It took no more than a second for the spark to catch, but when Lucy turned again to Wyatt, she only saw his back cutting through the audience.

Well, there goes that.

No time to spare, Lucy sidled through the press of bodies. The Globe burned to the ground within two hours, the fire screaming like a train through the circular structure. Which meant the play wouldn’t last five minutes more before the people panicked and ran for the exits. She pushed through until she shot across the lobby area and into the stairwell.

The last of Emma’s men disappeared backstage and she hurried past the benches overflowing with guests. No one stopped her as she slipped behind the stage intent on finding Flynn and Jiya before Emma did. She had no desire to face off against the woman again after their fight in that Chinatown alley, her bruises still fading.

But with Wyatt off-mission again, they needed back-up and that meant Lucy shoved down her fear and went after her friend and the man she loved. Who still didn’t know she loved him because right after their return from 1974 they raced off to Harriet Tubman, then San Francisco and losing Rufus. Now, London. There never seemed to be the time, funny enough considering they had a time machine.

She put it all aside. They’d rescue Shakespeare or whoever and save Rufus. She’d set Flynn straight so they could get to figuring out what it meant to share a life. For starters, she’d like to stop pretending she wasn’t going to his room every night since they shared the bottle of vodka. If they’d gotten more than two hours sleep in the past week, they might’ve had time to talk.

 _Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me._  
_I have this day received a traitor’s judgment,_ _  
And by that name must die._

The muffled voices of the actors got louder as she peaked around a corner into the open space directly behind the stage. A table of props sat organized in the center of the space, racks of costumes lining three sides, and tucked into the corner sat Shakespeare at a simple wooden table, papers strewn across its surface. On her right, Jiya poked her head out from behind a line of long coats of varying shades of finery.

Lucy started for her and all hell broke loose.

“Fire!” came a bellow from the playhouse, followed by several more, and from an adjoining room two younger women came running, frantic.

“Get out of here,” she yelled as she came out in the open.

They yanked open the door to the side of the stage while Lucy ran for Shakespeare, busily collecting the writing around him.

“You have to get out of here.” Lucy covered his hands to stop their movement.

Shaking her off, he grabbed at the piles. “You do not understand.”

“You can rewrite it,” she implored him, glancing down at the title, _Love’s Labours Won_. Shakespeare’s lost play.

“I cannot. I have done that once.” Defeat washed over him. “I do not have another decade in me.”

Smoke filtered in through the cracks in the wall and the author released his hold as Jiya pulled him from behind the makeshift desk.

“Get him out of here, I’ll be right behind.” Lucy searched the space to ensure no one else lingered, checking under the tables and rummaging through the hanging costumes, before rushing through the door onto the stage.

She gaped at the scene that greeted her. The entire roof and most of the top balcony were already engulfed in flames. Chaos reigned below as people fled the fire. But she had bigger problems.

Jiya lay on the floor and Emma held a very modern gun to Shakespeare’s temple.

“Is this how it’s gonna be from now on, Lucy?”

She bent to her friend, still breathing. It didn’t look like she’d been shot either. Good. Lucy scanned the fleeing mob for Flynn.

“He’ll be along any minute, don’t worry,” Emma taunted, knowingly. “Rescuing Fletcher first since Wil here refused to leave his work.”

The playwright looked unharmed, but she didn’t want to risk Emma killing him. Two of her men burst through the stage door behind and Lucy pulled the gun Wyatt had given her.

“Let him go, Emma. Pretty soon, none of us are gonna be able to get out of here alive and I don’t see you as someone willing to risk her life for the mission. What does killing Shakespeare serve at this point?”

Emma laughed as the fire grew, eating away at history. “You’re such a fool. I’m not here for Shakespeare, I’m here for you.” Lucy’s confusion must’ve shown on her face. “You don’t have any protection from the top anymore. Daddy’s in jail, mommy’s dead, and I’m bored with you. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to cross this stage and you and I will walk right out of here. No one has to get shot today. Or burned alive. Both very unpleasant options, I imagine.”

“And then what? You kill me? Why not just trap me in the fire?” She tried to buy herself some time for the cavalry to arrive.

Emma’s men inched towards Lucy as she checked on Jiya again, still out of it on the floor. She searched the entire space for any sign of Wyatt or Flynn, but it was just her against Emma and two large men who could probably snap her neck before she fired one shot.

“Oh, I have something very special planned for you.” A heavy beam collapsed in the middle balcony, showering the lower levels with burning shards of wood. Lucy flinched. “So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna let Shakespeare die for you?”

Lucy fought against giving in, but she wouldn’t let anyone die for her, let alone The Bard. Emma had won. Bending, she placed the gun on the floor, kicking it over. The guards met her halfway and meaty hands circled her arms.

“Let him go, Emma.”

The woman obliged, shoving her hostage away, and he ran for Jiya.

“Lucy!” Flynn’s scream cut right through her. He vaulted over the railing of the balcony and aimed his guns before he landed.

Emma ducked behind Lucy, using her as a human shield and walking her backwards, the woman’s gun pressed against her skull.

“Don’t even try it, Flynn. You’ve lost her, save the ones you can.”

“I will rip you limb from limb,” Flynn gritted out, waiting for an opening.

Emma pushed Lucy into the arms of one guard while firing straight at Flynn. He dropped and rolled out of the way, but it was too late. They were already on the floor, the redhead now dragging a stumbling Lucy through the fleeing mass of people. The two men covered their escape, their shots going wide, but giving Emma enough time to get away with the historian in tow.

Lucy’s last sight, before the butt of a gun rendered her unconscious, was the sign above the main door to the burning theater.

 _Totus mundus agit histrionem_  
All the world’s a stage.

***

"You abandoned Lucy to chase after your wife  _knowing_ the theater was about to burn down?" 

Flynn threw Wyatt out of the Lifeboat and he missed the first two stairs altogether, catching a toe on the bottom and going down to his knees. Mason and Denise came running from the computers.

“What the hell happened?” she asked, glancing first to the man on the ground then back at Flynn.

“Ask the soldier,” he sneered, gripping Wyatt’s shirt and lifting him to his feet before punching him square in the face and letting him fall to the ground.

Agent Christopher jumped in the middle as Jiya came up on Flynn’s right. “No. Don’t stop him. He deserves whatever he gets.”

Mason bent down, offering a hand to Wyatt, who smacked it away. “She’s my pregnant wife! What was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to stay on mission.” Flynn charged, but Denise blocked him again. “You were supposed to protect Lucy!”

“Where is she?” Mason asked, noticing for the first time in all the commotion that Lucy wasn’t with the rest of the team.

“Emma took her,” Jiya replied, her words icy, shocking everyone but Flynn. Denise’s eyes widened, disgust written plain on her face. Mason groped behind him for a chair and Jiya moved to steady him. After losing Rufus, Lucy’s abduction hit the older man hard.

Guilt crashed over Wyatt. “I'm sorry, I’ll get her back.”

Flynn saw red. Two steps later he towered over the soldier. “The fuck you will. You are worthless. If you stopped thinking with your dick for five seconds--” Flynn punched him again. “If Lucy dies, I will give you a day’s head start and then I will enjoy hunting you.”

“Flynn, hold on. Listen to me,” Wyatt begged, clutching his bleeding nose and scrambling to stand. “Give me a second chance. I can make this right.”

Jiya answered, terse. “That was your second chance. You got Rufus killed and now Emma has Lucy. I’m done with you.”

Agent Christopher came up to stand on Flynn’s right. “We’re all done with you.”

Wyatt looked at the group wearing identical shades of rage.

Connor moved to stand a foot away. “I want him out of the bunker.”

Agent Christopher nodded. “I’ll arrange it.”

“No,” Jiya disagreed. “No. He needs to fix this. He doesn’t get to go lick his wounds in solitude.”

“What do you suggest?” Personally, Flynn wanted to pummel the man into a bloody mess, but Wyatt got Rufus killed, she had a right to demand any kind of blood price she desired. “I’ll happily kill him for you.”

Jiya cracked a smile. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but I’ll keep it in mind.”  

“You will save Rufus.” Mason answered, his words quiet, but laced with anger. He lifted his head and stared at Wyatt, hands flexing at his sides. “You will find a way or you will die trying.”

Agent Christopher looked first to Jiya then Flynn for consent.

The younger woman agreed, deferring to Mason’s decision, but added, “You stay in your fucking room or I swear I will slit you wide open and leave you to bleed.”

Flynn didn’t give a shit what happened to the man. He only cared about Lucy. If Wyatt could save Rufus, he’d allow him to live. For now.

Mason said nothing more, clenching his fist and knocking Wyatt out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a hardcore Shakespeare nerd, so I'm glad I finally found an excuse to burn down the Globe. You'll be happy to know that no one died in the fire. Although a man's pants did catch on fire and he put it out with a tankard of ale he'd been drinking so...
> 
> Also, the story about the actors disassembling the Globe Theater and moving it across the Thames is true. They disassembled it on December 29, 1598, but waited a few months to move it across the river. It was reassembled in 1599. 
> 
> Here's a cool article that talks about both the moving of the theater and the fire.  
> http://www.findingdulcinea.com/news/on-this-day/May-June-08/On-this-Day--Shakespeare-s-Globe-Theatre-Burns-Down.html


	8. The Prince of Sao Paulo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in history is Lucy Preston? And will Garcia Flynn find her before it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the prompt no one asked for, but after the prompt that had Emma taking Lucy in the last ficlet, I couldn't just leave it there. 
> 
> Set after All Is True

The Mothership jumped. And jumped again. And then again. Seventeen times in all. 

Several hours after they returned from 1613, the alarm clanged the first time. Flynn shot to his feet from a prone position on the couch and demanded answers from an already running Jiya. 

“Where is she?” he growled out. 

Jiya’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “I can’t get a fix on them. Something’s…” 

Denise joined them on the platform, Mason at the foot of the stairs, both waiting. Flynn’s fingers dug into the edge of the desk. Nine hours and thirty-seven minutes had passed since they landed in the present without Lucy. Nine hours and thirty-seven minutes of agony. 

“November 5, 1605.” Jiya stood, fingers still at the keyboard. 

“Guy Fawkes.” Denise checked her side arm, taking the stairs two at a time. “The Gunpowder Plot.” 

Flynn stormed down behind her, snatching his leather from the top of the couch and meeting her at the Lifeboat. 

“You’re coming.” A statement, not a question. 

“Of course.” She replaced her gun in her holster. “Think she’d lecture us about modern weaponry in the seventeenth century?” 

“Doubtful, but she can yell at me all she wants when she’s back inside this bunker. Until then,” he replied, checking his ammunition, “I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring her home.” 

Jiya jogged over to the time machine, stepping inside to program the coordinates for the jump. Mason followed, reaching for the rolling stairway. 

Denise popped her head out. “You’re in charge. If anything happens, you know the protocol. Send the S.O.S and get the hell outta dodge. If you have time, save Wyatt.” 

“Bring her home,” he said, by way of goodbye.

Mason backed away, dragging the stairway with him, and watched the Lifeboat disappear. Once the wind in the wake of the machine dissipated, he sighed and headed to the living room, picking up Denise’s knitting. She’d never finish Rufus’ hat at this rate. 

He flipped on the television and hit play on the old VHS.  _ Back to the Future _ filled the screen and Mason settled into waiting. He’d never done it alone, usually Denise sat beside him as they ran through the bunker’s collection of VHS tapes. The clicking, clack of her metal knitting needles accented the hum of the air filtration system. 

They rarely talked, but when they did, they talked about their families. Mason told her about growing up poor in Chicago. About learning to fix things to help his mother. About how naive he’d been when he cracked time travel.

_ “I had dreams of saving the world,” he said as they watched the original Superman while the team protected a young Denise from Rittenhouse.  _

_ Flynn’s perfect sense of timing him brought him near enough to respond. “How’s that going for you?”  _

_ “Don’t you have brooding to do?” Click clack. Click clack. Knitting needles a staccato dismissal.  _

_ He opened the crisper drawer and selected an apple, taking a bite. “It’s an art form.”  _

_ The Power of Love _ played over Marty McFly skateboarding down the utterly wholesome streets of Hill Valley. Mason toed off his shoes and propped his stockinged feet up on the coffee table. Holding onto the yarn and needles in one hand, with the other he reached for the burnt orange afghan discarded in a lump in the corner of the couch. 

A can of dog food opened by automation and plopped into a dish on the screen as Mason lulled his nerves with knit two, purl one. 

Five rows into the knitting the alarm sounded again. 

“What the?” Mason dropped the needles, tossing the blanket aside, and headed for the computers. “What is going on?” 

He brought up the guidance system, checking that the Lifeboat landed in 1605 as expected. It checked out. So why had they gotten an alarm for the Mothership? He clicked over to the window with the information for Emma and her team. 

May 24, 1883. 

Mason opened a browser, doing a quick google search. The opening of the Brooklyn Bridge. He double-checked the data, ensuring they didn’t have an error or a virus. God forbid if somehow Rittenhouse had the ability to hack the bunker. They’d have the location in under five minutes.

He received the same information the second time. Rittenhouse had definitely jumped to 1883 while the team remained in 1605. This couldn’t be good. Retrieving a notepad from the side of the desk, Mason jotted down any relevant info, starting a timer on the time spent in the past on the off chance it might be a series of precalculated jumps. 

Seven minutes and forty-three seconds later, the alarm sounded again. Another jump. This time to November 22, 1963. Even he knew that one. JFK’s assassination in Austin. Thirteen minutes and four seconds later, June 9, 64. 

Mason ran the data again. That couldn’t be right. They had to be missing two numbers. He switched to the browser again trying various dates, June 9, 1964, nothing. June 9, 1764. Nothing. The computer beeped. Nope, definitely just June 9, 64. So, fall of Rome-ish? Maybe?

He tried not to miss their historian as he brought up google. Who knew if he was getting accurate information. Before he finished reading a theory on that being the date Rome burned, the alarm sounded again. 

Over the next eight hours the Mothership jumped seventeen times. 1066. 1440. May 1, 1931. August 28, 1963. The Haymarket Tragedy. The construction of the Hoover Dam. April 11, 1912. The Reichstag Fire. July 19, 1848. The ride of Paul Revere. The Great Chicago Fire. The coronation of James after the death of Elizabeth. 

Mason compiled a list of the details of every jump. How long Emma remained in the past, any research he could collect from various search engines and his british education. 

The team remained in 1605 the entire time. 

***

At first, the team prioritized the missions to find Lucy by order of effect on the timeline, the construction of the Hoover Dam less likely than the ride of Paul Revere. The opening of the Empire State Building, the burning of Rome, the sealing of the Magna Carta further down on the list than the Reichstag Fire or William the Conqueror defeating Harold at the Battle of Hastings. 

They spent days on each mission, hunting down any halfway plausible lead. Trying to juggle saving Lucy with Emma and Rittenhouse carrying on as usual. The missions began to merge together. The only things they learned: Harold definitely died of an arrow to the eye and Nero couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and was unlikely to have played an instrument not invented until the 11th century. 

The team turned to Lucy’s dominion, books, scouring the pages for any sign of her. Nothing. The books piled higher on the kitchen tables. Nothing. Post-it notes stuck out of dog-eared books lying open next to legal pads filled with notes and theories, half scribbled out and hardly legible. Nothing.

Lucy Preston, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared.

Two weeks into her absence Flynn lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining any number of ways to kill Emma, when he curled onto his side, smoothing the empty space Lucy left behind. The faint scent of her clinging to the sheets, he burrowed himself into the lingering memory. Sliding a hand under her pillow, his fingers bumped against a book. Something she was reading maybe. 

He withdrew the battered leather journal with Lucy’s initials engraved on the cover. He cradled it, the pages well-worn and swollen from the writing contained within. He shouldn’t read it, knowing whatever she wrote would be private. Not knowing if it was his journal she’d give him in Sao Paulo or a new one entirely. So instead, he brought the book to his chest and fell asleep, dreaming of a brunette, scrambling through the fog and calling his name. 

***

_ Dear Amy,  _

_ I found your sister’s journal. I tried not to read it, but I missed her, wanted to hear her voice again. And I gave in. Only the first entry, but still. For nine days it stayed underneath her pillow. I’d lay in bed with my hand on the cover as if I could summon her back by sheer force of will. I told myself I might find a clue about her whereabouts, but when I opened it and read her first letter to you, I knew I had no right no matter how much I missed her.  _

_ It’s been twenty-five days now. Twenty-five days with her lost in time. I can’t find her. And Jiya, I can’t ask her. I know she’s looked. If she’d found something in a vision, she’d tell me.  _

_ I’ll confess my sin to her as soon as I figure out where Emma sent her. But for now, I’ll make amends by telling you that I did think of it as a date. I wanted Lucy to trust me, to see me as a friend and not an enemy. I wanted to win her over and so I used another journal, one she gave me of her own free will. One she wrote when you were still alive. Before she lost you. Before I accidentally erased you from time.  _

_ I’m going to fix that one day. I promise. _

_ I hope you don’t mind me writing this letter to you, it makes me feel closer to her somehow.  _

_ ~*~*~ _

_ It’s been one month, twelve days, and fifty-six minutes since the last time I saw your sister standing in front of the flames. Longer since her hand touched my arm, drawing my attention to her warm brown eyes. Since I cradled her grieving body and promised to protect her.  _

_ I failed her. The knowledge haunts me.   _

_ ~*~*~ _

_ Two months, two days, and eleven minutes.  _

_ Days before she was taken, I told your sister I loved her. But as it happens with our lives with annoying regularity, we were interrupted and she never answered me. I think I gave her a bit of happiness, but I don’t know.  _

_ We have another mission in the morning. This time to the Battle of Culloden. I feel like that’s all I see now, battles and fires. Everywhere I turn. Blood and destruction.  _

_ Where is she? Does she know I’d burn down the world to find her? That I’d leave a wide trail of destruction in my wake just to bring her home again?  _

_ ~*~*~ _

_ Three months, twenty-three days, and forty-two minutes without her, days in the past blurring with nights in the present. I don’t remember the last time I slept.  _

_ I can’t save her.  _

_ ~*~*~ _

_ Three months, twenty-five days, seventeen hours, and thirty-three minutes. This will likely be the last of my letter to you. I’ve done something I’m sure your sister would call unreasonably foolish. But I have to try and save her even if it costs me a future with her.  _

_ The time has come for me to make amends. I only hope that the happiness your return gives her will go a little way towards forgiving me for taking you from her in the first place.  _

_ She never gave up on you.  _

_ Wish you were here,  _ _  
_ _ Garcia Flynn _

_ *** _

“I know how to save Rufus.” Wyatt crept towards the seated group, neck deep in research. 

Jiya looked up first. “What did you say?” 

“We can save him.” The soldier stayed five feet back, clutching a yellow legal pad to his chest. “Well, you can.” 

She slammed her book on the early days of the Pony Express shut and shoved away from the table. Several heavy hardcovers fell over onto Flynn and slid to the floor, and he bent to retrieve them, noticing one of the books that had fallen open. 

Jiya stilled. “Talk.” 

“Mason’s been helping me figure out the timeline stuff.” Jiya threw a glare at the older man, but if it helped save her sweet, kind, adorkable Rufus, she’d forgive him. “We can’t reset too far or we could break something we can’t control. You want to stay as close as possible to the event you want to alter. ”

“Stop explaining things I already know.” Jiya picked up a pen, tapping it against a pile of research notes. “Tell me how to save Rufus or go back to your room.” 

Wyatt flinched at her tone, but proceeded. “You went on your first mission to 1981 so you wouldn’t be in the present to cause any complications with a second version of yourself. It’s before I became suspicious of Jess, so she’d be less on her guard at that point. You go back and tell Agent Christopher that Jess is a sleeper and needs to be arrested. Take out Jess before she grabs you and the team never follows you back to Chinatown. Rufus lives.” 

Flynn knew he should be focusing on what the Asshole was saying, but he stared at the black and white photo of a group of women standing on the deck of the RMS Titanic in 1912 as it surged forward into the empty waters. He lifted the old encyclopedia like it might vanish if he let his focus wander. 

Denise’s gaze narrowed at Wyatt. “This is your responsibility, not hers. You were also in 1981 at that point. You could go back just as easily as Jiya.”

“I know,” Wyatt admitted. “I just didn’t think she’d trust me to do it.” 

Jiya cracked her first smile in months. “You’d be right.” 

“I found her.” Flynn stared at the photo, unbelieving. 

They’d dismissed the Titanic outright since it seemed so farfetched. There’d be no way to land on the vessel with any kind of accuracy, you might end up in the engines. So that after that last port, any mission that involved the Titanic meant once you got on, you were going down with the ship. Literally. 

Denise swiveled in her chair to inspect the photo. Sure enough, Lucy stood, defiant as ever, nothing but sky behind her. Mason came around, studying the photo over her shoulder. 

“Who do we save first?” Denise looked to Mason as moved to rifle through a pile of spiral bound notebooks, finally selecting a green one.

“We have to save Lucy first. If Jiya goes back and successfully alters the timeline, she possibly comes back to a world in which none of us remember Emma abducting Lucy because an alternate version of Lucy is standing right there having never been abducted by Emma.”  

“But that’s good, right?” Denise asked, hoping it meant that if they saved Rufus, they’d save Lucy as well. 

Mason shoved three notebooks to the side, choosing the red one beneath them. “Yes and no. It’s not the same Lucy. Jiya would be the only one who remembered that our Lucy is stranded on the Titanic. An alternate Lucy, one who wasn’t abducted by Emma, would exist for everyone else.” Mason flipped through the notebook, not looking up. “It changes the dynamics of the team from the moment of Jess’ arrest.”

“Potentially stranding our Lucy on the Titanic.” Flynn refused to think of his historian dying, alone and forgotten on some doomed ship. 

“But what happens to alternate Lucy when our Lucy returns?" Denise was more than a little confused by all the time travel complications. 

Jiya replied, solemn. “She gets overwritten. Our Lucy will take her rightful place in the timeline again, but I’ll be the only one to know that.” 

Flynn rose, already in motion. “Alright, we’ll go to 1912, find Lucy, and bring her home. Then Jiya and Lucy go back to save Rufus.”

“There’s something…” Mason turned a page, finger tracing down. “Here it is.” Mason started, finding the information he needed. “Emma landed on April 11th, four days before the Titanic sank. Which means, Lucy left from the last port, Queenstown, Ireland, not the origination point in Southampton. It was only in dock for two hours.”

Their impossible task more difficult than expected, that was nothing new. The black and white photo commanded their attention, Lucy unfraid, as if she never doubted the team would find her. 

“Two hours then.” Denise pushed away from the table, standing, staring straight at Flynn. “You have to save her before she gets on that ship.”

“If I don’t, I won’t be coming back.” Flynn ripped out the page and folded it, tucking it in his pocket. 

Agent Christopher nodded. “Mason, I want you on this mission. I’ll stay here on babysitting duty.” 

Flynn headed towards his room. “I just need to grab something. Then we can go.” 

***   
April 11th, 1912

Flynn interrogated dock workers for any sign of Emma or Lucy, while Mason and Jiya checked out every business within walking distance, No one had seen either of the women and they were running out of time. 

They regrouped, standing in the shadow of the massive vessel. Flynn greeted them wearing a dark blue sailor’s uniform, never stopping his constant scan of the area.

Jiya laid a hand on his arm. “I’d tell you not to go. That we need you too much, but I’d do the same in your shoes.” 

“You make it sound like this is goodbye,” Flynn quipped to break the heavy tension. “Look for us in the list of survivors when you get back. You’ll see, we’ll be waiting for you to come pick us up.” 

They all knew the odds of survival were low, Lucy’s a bit better than Flynn’s, but they laughed anyway. 

Jiya wrapped her arms around him, her hug fierce. “Even if I don’t find your names. We’ll find a way.”

Flynn held out a hand to Mason and the older man joined in the hug. “We’ll bring both of you home.” 

“Go save Rufus.” Flynn squeezed them one last time and walked onto the RMS Titanic.

***

Flynn commandeered a first class cabin by stealing the best tux he could find and then demanding one. Apologies were made all around to the Prince of Sao Paulo, Garcia Flynn. 

Once situated, he set to searching. He started on the lowest levels, breaking in the evening to frequent the parties, hobnobbing with John Jacob Astor, hoping he’d find her having cocktails with the Unsinkable Molly Brown. 

For three days, he found nothing. With ten decks and a manifest of over twenty-two hundred, it was bound to take time, but tomorrow night they would run out of it. 

He tied on a black bow tie, slipped his arms into the black tails, and donned a top hat preparing for yet another night of thinking he caught a glimpse of her passing on the deck outside the Cafe Parisien. Following, sure he’d found her. Sure he’d walked in on the instant a photographer would capture her image sending a clue through history. 

The woman turned and he let out a heavy breath. Not her. 

Another time, he thought he saw her serving a table of ladies in silk and sapphires and rushed over only to have to explain why he couldn’t join them just now. Yesterday morning, he thought he found her in the laundry. Yesterday afternoon reading in the Reading and Writing room, then gripping the railing, hair blowing out behind her on the Promenade. 

Descending the Grand Staircase, Flynn passed through the Reception area to the first class dining hall. The hostess seated him in a dark corner and a dry vodka martini appeared shortly after. He ordered the filet mignon, scanning the room as he sipped. The alcohol did nothing to alleviate either his thirst or his nerves. 

His dinner arrived as a horrible thought occurred to him. That the photo had somehow been staged. That Emma never intended to strand her on the Titanic. The tender cut of steak turned to sawdust in his mouth. He may have, in his rush to see her again, walked right into a trap intended for him all along. 

Flynn pushed the plate away, tossing his cloth napkin on the table, and strode out of the crowded room, onto the deck, and into the fresh air. Coming to a halt at the front of the ship, the wind whipped off his hat, and he half-turned, watching it blow away. The early spring chill over the water, a bitter reminder of his failure. When Jiya read the list of survivors, only his would appear. Lucy still lost in time. 

He gripped the metal railing. Jiya would find her. He might’ve failed, but she would not stay lost forever. Lucy would survive. 

No, he refused. He would not give in until he was clinging to a piano bench in the icy waters, debris floating around him. 

“No.” 

Her voice echoed in his head. At least he’d have that comfort in this last day. She would tell him to fight until the end.

“Flynn…no.” 

Imagining the soft lines of her face as she helped him fight against the demons that plagued him. His failure to save Lorena and Iris. Now her. Of course she’d come to save him. Even if it was only a--

“Garcia Flynn, what the hell are you doing here?” 

Wait. What?

Flynn spun around and Lucy Preston waited, his top hat clutched in one hand, her other arm wrapped around her stomach.

A young woman reached out to steady her. “Miss?” 

She found him. 

“Lucy?” The diminutive woman asked again. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” She looked over at the golden-curled blond wearing a worried expression. “Winifred, this is Garcia Flynn, Flynn this is Win. She let me out of the steamer trunk Emma had me packed into and loaded onto the ship. I’m lucky she heard my commotion.” 

“This is,” Win leaned in, “your Flynn?” 

Lucy blushed. “Yes.” 

“I’ll just excuse myself.” She squeezed Lucy’s hand. “I’ll be in the room.” 

Left alone on the deck, neither of them moved as the stars streaked by above them. 

Flynn drank in the sight of her, flushed cheeks matching the dusty rose gown with burgundy flowers stitched into the sheer overlay.

“I came for you.” 

Lucy threw her head back and laughed. “Why would you do something so utterly ridiculous?” 

“Have you met me?” Flynn wanted to kiss her, but as she was apparently having a moment, he refrained. 

“That’s fair,” she replied, her laugh disappearing as she closed the distance. “Here’s your hat.” 

“Thank you.” 

Their fingers brushed, and Lucy traced a thumb over his knuckles. Of course he’d come for her. She lifted her face, falling into his hazel eyes like a late summer forest, deep greens and browns with flecks of golden sunlight. 

“I didn’t want you to risk your life for me.” She reached up, cradling his cheek and he leaned into her hand. 

“I couldn’t let you face this alone.” 

She rose up on tip-toe and graced him with a gentle kiss, simple and unhurried, savoring the feel of his lips molding to hers. Pulling back, she breathed in the heady scent of him, rosemary tangled with the salty sea air. She shivered in her light wrap and he tucked her into his body.

“Well, I suppose, we’ll just have to figure out how to survive.” 

***

They spent hours, bodies entwined, stitching stories into starlight. 

“I love you.” A kiss pressed to the hollow of his collarbone. “I should have told you sooner.”

Her hair veils over him, hands fisted together, her willing captive. “I wanted a lifetime with you.” 

“You found me.” Their names tumble from searching lips. “I’ll always find you.”  

I love you, a prayer and a promise, confessed and carried away by the wind. They parted only when the sun rose, determined to survive. 

***

Mid-afternoon, after trying to convince the Captain, the First Mate, and the architect of the Titanic himself of the danger and being rebuffed, they attempted a mutiny in the engine room that failed spectacularly and ended with Lucy and Flynn confined to quarters. They escaped minutes later and split up. Lucy joined the ladies, trying to warn them without sounding like a crazy person spouting off about icebergs and sinking ships. They just laughed it off and left to ready themselves for dinner, completely unconcerned. Flynn had less luck with the men, who only boasted about feats of engineering. 

They ate in a quiet corner, holding hands under the tablecloth. Both at a loss at to what they could do to stop the tragedy from playing out. 

“Do you think some things are meant to happen?” Lucy asked, twirling her pasta on a fork. 

A small smile flickered across his face. “You believe in fate. In meant to be,” he reminded her. 

“If you’re my fate, I want a refund.” She lifted their hands, kissing his fingertips. “No, I mean, the big things. The Lincoln events.” 

“You’re wondering if there’s no way we can keep the Titanic from sinking.”

“I am. You stopped the Hindenburg only for the explosion to happen anyway. I tried to stop you from shooting Lincoln, it happened anyway. I tried to warn Kennedy about the assassination, it still happened, just in Austin instead of Dallas.” 

“I honestly don’t know, Lucy. Maybe the impact of those events is just too much for the universe to allow changes.” He studied her warm brown eyes pleading with him to give her hope. “All we can do is try.” 

***

Flynn, Lucy, and Win clung together on the promenade, huddling in the shadow of the boat deck above. People swarmed around them while a quartet accompanied the chaos. The lifeboats lowered to the glassy surface below while husbands promised wives they’d be fine, the Titanic unsinkable. The women clambered over the edge, wiping away their tears with the back of a gloved hand while cradling their children. 

Flynn waited as long as he could.

“Lucy,” he gazed at her, memorizing her face. He wrapped his scarf around her neck. “It’s time for you to go.” 

“We’ll wait. We’ll all get on together.” She fumbled with his scarf, trying to give it back to him. 

He gathered her hands in his. “You know that isn’t going to happen. You and Win can get away to safety. Jiya knows to look for you on the survivor lists. She’ll come for you.” 

Lucy shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes. “No. I’m not leaving without you.” She turned to Win, taking off her pilfered fur coat and draping it over her shoulders. “Go, get on a lifeboat, I’ll find you.” 

The girl who’d helped her her first days on the Titanic threw herself at Lucy. They’d bonded sneaking into a first class cabin and stealing clothes from the lower level laundry. Win was smart as a whip and Lucy wished nothing but the best for her. 

“I’ll see you soon, I promise.” She watched the tiny blond maneuver her way to the crowd waiting for the nearest lifeboat and Flynn wrapped her in his own coat and pulled her close. “Now, we were arguing about you getting off this damn ship.” 

“Only you would argue as the Titanic sank.” 

Lucy’s brow scrunched together in annoyance. “Give me one good reason you can’t get on one of those lifeboats. Didn’t you tell me you pretended to be a prince? Demand a royal seat or whatever. Flynn it up!” 

He kissed the top of her head. “And if my presence dooms someone else?” 

“What about me? What if I’m stealing a seat from someone else.”

“You’re a woman, Lucy, you’ve got an automatic ticket.” 

“I don’t care. I won’t leave you.” She swiped at the traitorous tears that spilled down her cheeks. 

“You have to.” Flynn retrieved her journal from his inner pocket. “I found this under your pillow months ago and held onto it, taking it on every mission so that whenever I found you, it’d be the same as you left it.” 

“It’s been months for you?” she asked, touched that he went to such lengths to preserve it for her.

He glanced at his watch, “Three months, twenty-seven days, four hours, and twelve minutes.”He’d give anything for an entire life with this fierce woman. “I gave in one night and read your first letter to her. I’m sorry, I missed you and I was weak. I actually wrote my own letter to her, tucked into the back cover. Read it if you like.” 

“I love you, I can’t leave you here.” Lucy swallowed her grief and fought for him. “You’re Garcia Flynn, figure it out.” 

He swept her hair away from her face, loving every defiant glare she gave him. “It’s my fault you lost her in the first place. If you die here tonight, she stays erased. I came to make sure you got on that lifeboat. Because I know you, Lucy Preston, you’d sacrifice yourself for every single person on this ship. But I love you and I know that the most important thing in your life is saving your sister.” 

He pressed the journal into her hands, the ship listing, tilting towards the sea. He kissed her, offering her early morning coffee and late night vodka; giving her his heart, body, soul; promising her a future that slipped from their grasp as the ship rocked unsteady beneath them. 

“I love you, Lucy Preston.” He heard the crack of the hull, knowing it wouldn’t be long now. “Go. Live. Save your sister.” 

The wind picked up as Lucy backed away from him, refusing to let go. She watched as his face widened, bathed in a warm light and suffused with a boyish, triumphant joy. 

Lucy turned to see what gave him such hope. 

Jiya poked her head out of the Lifeboat. “Holy frakballs, it actually worked. I told Mason we could--” 

“Hey, less talking, more saving.” Rufus’ voice echoed out of the time machine. 

Flynn huffed out a relieved breath, tucking Lucy into his side and smiling up at Jiya. 

“I told you that wasn’t goodbye.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Flynn's ending, and Win's cameo inclusion!, on the Titanic was shamelessly stolen from the story of Isidor, co-owner of Macy's, and his wife, Ida Strauss. Isidor was offered a seat on a lifeboat, but refused to take a seat until all the women and children had evacuated from the ship. Ida refused to leave her husband, saying they had lived together and they would die together. She ordered her maid to board a lifeboat before giving the woman her mink coat saying she wouldn't need it anymore. 
> 
> Woodlawn Cemetary in the Bronx memorialized them with a line from Song of Solomon:  
> "Many waters cannot quench love-neither can the floods drown it."
> 
> https://amp.businessinsider.com/titanic-famous-survivors-victims-2018-4


	9. Wish You Were Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy's last letter to Amy.

Dear Amy,

We’re bringing you back. Finally. Flynn planned it all out after Emma stranded me in 1912. He survived, by the way. Though, you’ll meet him soon enough, so you’ll get to see for yourself the reckless, hot-headed, dumpster fire of a fool he really is. He’s elbowing me right now, trying to get me to stop writing, but really? He trusted Jiya to find a way to land the Lifeboat on the freaking Titanic. In the middle of the ocean. While it was sinking.

He’s shrugging and pointing out that it worked.

I just can’t--

Dear Amy,

Garcia here, Lucy needs more research on 1979, so you’ll forgive me if I take over this final missive.

The plan is to go back and make sure your folks meet at Berkeley. Problem is, Emma tangled it all up. So I’m headed to February 1975 for a month to befriend Henry Wallace, ensuring he and Katharine Belin, granddaughter of Peter Belin, survivor of the Hindenburg, never meet. After I return, Jiya and Rufus take over in 1976, keeping tabs on Carol and Henry, not interfering so much as making sure neither of them flits off to Europe or joins the Peace Corps. Then Lucy's headed to Berkeley in 1979 to oversee the introduction. Making sure your mother and father meet. Somewhere romantic, Lucy wants me to let you know. She wants to script them the perfect beginning. (As if she and I didn't meet in front of the burning wreckage of a disaster.)

All of us, guiding the timeline, nudging it in the direction of love.

I think it’s her most important mission yet. She’s partnered up with Ian Fleming and Harriet Tubman, fought Nazis and Communists, sipped cocktails with Josephine Baker, befriended Alice Paul, and saved the world more than once.

But the only mission that ever really mattered to her was bringing you home.

Dear Amy,

It’s me again. Flynn’s about to leave on the first mission and over the course of the next two days, the team will all take turns living through history just to bring you back. No longer visitors taking shortcuts through a wormhole in time, but living the long way around. There’s no famous people this time. Just me and mom.

And eventually, you.

Wish you were here,  
Lucy and Flynn

***  
April 23, 1979

The bell chimed over the door. Lucy turned to see her mother step inside and waved her over through the dim interior of the busy coffee shop.

“Latte, as requested.” She handed over the still steaming cup. “What’s on the agenda for this afternoon?”

Carol dropped her bag and purse at the foot of the plush couch and sat, reaching for the coffee and tucking her legs up under her.

“Paper for Old Man Kershner on the long term effects of the Civil War and its influence on the social justice movements of the last two decades. You?”

“A What If theory for Dr. Leibowitz.” Carol raised an eyebrow. “It’s a thought experiment where you take an idea we consider an immutable fact and ask what if. For instance, what would happen if John Wilkes--” she stopped herself, remembering the altered past, “if an anonymous gunman never shot Lincoln? Or, if Lincoln survived? How would our world be different?”

Carol let her skepticism show. “That doesn’t seem like it would have very many real world applications.”

“You’d be surprised.”

The opening chords of Pink Floyd’s _Wish You Were Here_ came over the tinny speakers, reminding Lucy of Flynn and the time they’d spent separated, threading the timelines of Carol and Henry back together. She missed him, but the Lifeboat was due to pick her up in a little over a week, not much longer now. She couldn’t wait to feel his body, no longer a memory, in her arms. 

Carol read the wistful look on Lucy’s face. “You thinking about your Garcia?”

“I am.” _So you think you can tell._ Lucy remembered her mother singing the song as she stood in the fading evening sunlight washing dishes as Lucy dried them. “I love this song.”

“It’s my favorite,” Carol remarked. “I’m not sure why, but it is. There’s just something about it.”

“Some songs are just like that, I guess.” Lucy meant to continue, but the door opened again and her mother’s focus drifted towards the dark-haired man who entered.

She fell silent, letting the song play around them, butterflies in her stomach, praying for perfection. Snatching glimpses of her mother watching Henry out of the corner of her eye. He stood at the counter, collecting his change and searching for an empty space to sit.

Lucy took the opening, inviting him over. “We’ve got room, join us. I’m Lucy and this is my friend, Carol Preston.”

Henry shook Lucy's hand, but kept his eyes on her mother as he took the seat next to her on the couch.

“I’m Henry Wallace.” Carol's hand slipped into his. “Pleasure to meet you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come to the end of this love letter to the GarcyFam in honor of one rollercoaster of a year together.  
> Thank you all for being absolutely amazing. For surprising me and inspiring me and having my back at all times. 
> 
> You are all beautiful and lovely and all things good. 
> 
> Mad Lovely,  
> The Outlaw


End file.
